No rest for the wicked
by photo100
Summary: After a long, hard case, John seems to suddenly fall ill. Is all as it seems or is there more at play? Will anyone see what's really going on before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

It was after a week-long case which had kept both residents of 221B (along with a certain Scotland Yard Detective Inspector) with little sleep, when John stumbled out of his bedroom and made his way to his morning tea.

Leaving some not-so-stale bread in the toaster and cradling the all-important mug, he made his way to his armchair and huffed in relief at the knowledge that he wouldn't have to spend his day chasing underworld warlords. Sherlock was sprawled over the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the other life around him, in his usual post-case bliss. John smiled as he sipped his tea and contemplated what the great detective could be considering.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted as he was suddenly knelt in front of the doctor who could only blink back in confusion as he tried to comprehend how his flatmate could at one moment be on the other side of the room and the next be right in front of him; without him noticing. At all.

"Toast!" John moved from bewilderment to alarm in a second as he flung himself off his armchair, and towards the toaster, knocking the kneeling Sherlock to the floor as he did.

He stopped short.

In the kitchen appliance, 2 slices of almost-stale-but-not-quite bread sat completely untoasted. Tentatively, John poked the still bread. It swayed before once again falling still within its metal confines.

Once again, John pushed the button down and watched as the heating filament slowly began to glow a bright, fiery orange, the heat warming his nose as he lent dangerous close to the toaster. Sherlock stood in the doorway awkwardly, watching the unpredictable movements of the one person he could normally most easily read.

The doctor still hadn't moved when the timer spun round to a stop and the toast bounced up and off his nose.

Sighing, partly in relief, partly in annoyance and partly in resigned acceptance, John returned to his chair with his plate of toast and a new cup of tea.

"Better now?" a slightly confused Sherlock asked as he continued to puzzle over what had just happened. John only huffed in reply as he stole a bite of his toast and ruffled his newspaper open.

He blinked as he tried to get the words to focus on the sheet. After a good two minutes of staring at the blurred words without reading a single one, John resigned himself to missing the paper until he woke up enough to allow his eyes to probably focus.

He took another bite of toast and began looking for something else to distract him. The toast tasted worse than expected, so much so that even the well-honed counter-gagging control of the solider/doctor could not prevent the offending mouthful from being projected across the room as John gagged in desperation.

"Mrs Hudson will take that from the out rent," Sherlock teased in an unusual swap of their usual roles, as John watched the mouthful slide, ungracefully, down the wall.

With a weary huff, John turned once more back to his paper. The words sat, firmly, where they should be, allowing him to fall back into his post-long-case morning routine. Without any conscience thought, he finished his tea, toast and paper without any further difficulty.

Content he had finished reading everything that was worth his time, he looked up to find his flatmate studying him.

"Sherlock," John asked cautiously "What are you doing?"

"Collecting data," the genius cryptically answered before launching himself off the sofa and donning his long coat. "Coming?" he shot across the room.

"Where to?" John shot back.

"Lestrade," came the one word reply.

John stood up and fell back down. "Stood up too quickly" he mumbled in answer to Sherlock's questioning gaze as he, more slowly, stood up once more.

Five minutes later, both doctor and detective were installed in the back of a black cab on their way to tell the police where they had gone wrong this time.

Exiting the taxi, Sherlock steadied John as he swayed dangerous with only a brief worried look playing across his face.

Together they entered the police HQ and made their way up to DI Lestrade's office. They gave their formal statement and later found themselves sitting in the office with its owner and cups of tea each.

Sherlock paused in his more informal and extended not-for-paperwork explanation of the latest murder case, when a strangely metronomic clicking of umbrella on tiled, Scotland Yard flooring began to crescendo as it neared the small male gathering.

"Mycroft, my dear brother, what are you doing here?" Sherlock filled the silence as his brother filled the doorway.

"Surely you're not too tired to work it out yourself, Sherlock?" the man behind the British government scolded.

"Let me rephrase the question then, following your meeting with some boring high-ranking police fool -" Lestrade huffed indignantly as John sent him a sympathetic, apologetic look but Sherlock ploughed on, and into, his brother, "- why do you feel the need to come and interrupt our rather pleasant and constructive conversation?"

"You mean your lecture to the only two people who would ever put up with it?" Mycroft gave no room for reply; the only response provoked from the rhetorical question being John's reproachful glare moving from the one Holmes to the other. "I came to say hello -"

"Since when do you have time to just 'say hello'?" Sherlock scoffed as he interrupted.

"- and to speak to your long-suffering flatmate," the older brother finished with no acknowledgement of the interruption at all.

John suddenly had everyone's faces pointed towards him; slowly he looked at around each of the men.

Mycroft had moved to stand half in the doorway, half out: his meaning clear, this was a conversation to be had outside. The look of patient expectation sat on his face. He knew the ex-solider would follow the unspoken orders and join him outside in his own time.

Sherlock had a look of smug annoyance as he wallowed in the knowledge that, although removing John from his ear-shot, he would still hear it word for word, or as close to as possible, from his friend the second they were out of his brother's physical ear-shot, if not mechanical. Mycroft gained absolutely nothing by having the 'private' chat while Sherlock had effective had one-up on him.

Lestrade, who had, in his time, had enough of his own run-ins with the elder Holmes, returned John a look of deep sympathy but even this could not quite hide the secret relief that, this time at least, the DI was not the one having to talk to the very powerful man who was Mycroft Holmes.

With a reconciled sigh, John slowly stood up. He took one step towards the door and then stopped.

He felt his hand flay out uncontrollable as he lost his balance and the room began to spin.

He watched as Sherlock suddenly started forward but could not reach him as his body jerked out of his control and to the floor.

He heard the worried call of his name from Sherlock, the hesitant questions from Lestrade and the assertive voice of Mycroft as he thrashed on the floor.

He felt Sherlock place his coat under his head and allowed the smell to envelop him as he continued to fit on the floor and darkness swiftly stole his eyesight.

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**Author's Note:** Not sure if I've quite mastered the voices of all the characters - I would really appreciate any help and/or input that anyone may have to offer. Thanks


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually it stopped.

John could only lie there breathing, his eyes tightly shut as he just lay. Still and unmoving. Finally.

No-one said a word.

Lestrade stared on stunned silence, his head moving slowly between his friend on the floor and the two Holmes brothers.

Sherlock had stretched himself out in the hard police-standard office chair, his fingers brought together and pointed under his chin, eyes closed as he did when thinking. When John had fallen, Sherlock had stood to help his flatmate, called his name but when no response came, he'd donated his coat to the doctor's rolling head, and, without a backwards glance, sat back down again before assuming the position he still sat in.

Mycroft had himself turned his eyes to the ceiling and stood, almost to the point of indifference, just inside the closed doorway. Without looking down from his study of the white panels, he had assertively ordered Lestrade to move chairs out the way and shift his desk away from the flaying doctor. Once this was done, he had fallen into a characteristic silence, head turned upwards and leaning on his customary black umbrella.

This had left Lestrade standing in the middle of his own office watching one man convulse and two others completely ignore it. Confused, outraged at the lack of actually action on anyone's part - including his own - and very much scared, when John had stopped, he had let out the breath he had been unknowingly holding and continued to stand, dumbstruck with relief, by his filing cabinets.

"Three?" John suddenly broke the silence, his eyes still shut, confusion plastered on his face. Mycroft impatiently clicked his umbrella once on the laminate floor.

"Eight." Sherlock replied without moving.

"Really?" John opened his eyes but didn't move from the floor.

The consulting detective didn't grace the question with a reply.

After a pause, John pushed himself upwards to his feet. Shaking himself, he purposefully stepped over to the desk where Sherlock (eyes still shut) unfurled one slender arm and pushed his cup of tea towards his flatmate. Taking a mouthful of the sugary liquid without question, John turned to the elder Holmes.

"Mycroft?" The man was obviously going to ignore his recent episode and continue with the business in Mycroft's hand.

This complete disregard shocked Lestrade out of his dumbstricken state as he found himself. "Hang on! Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?"

Three faces turned to him.

"I'm…" John's paused, his face blank.

"Nine" Sherlock counted, still facing Lestrade.

"…fine!" John finished.

"Come Doctor Watson, you don't expect us to believe that when you can't even complete the sentence." Mycroft purred.

Confusion to mirror that of Lestrade's, paused on John's face before realisation dawned.

"I'll go see a doctor as soon as I can," he said, finally resigning himself to the mercies of the medical system.

Mycroft was about to reply when Sherlock cut across him. "My dear brother has already emptied a hospital room and called an ambulance here – it should be arriving in -" he glanced at his watch before moving his glare to the said brother, "- about thirty seconds."

"Oh Sherlock, you forgot the specialist," Mycroft replied in all seriousness, while John could only laugh. Both brothers turned to stare at him with almost identical looks of bemusement, which only caused John to laugh more. The idea of him, a simple idiot, managing to bewilder these two brothers was so unlikely that he could only laugh.

Finally, John forced himself to stop if only to breathe, before managing to speak.

"Why?" he asked as he stamped his foot absently.

"For the same reason I came to talk to you today." Mycroft's cryptic reply did nothing to help John but before more could be said, three paramedics burst into the room and looked between the four men.

"Who…?" they began.

"It's him you want," Lestrade, who still didn't understanding what was going on to any degree, pointed them towards John as the three men, turned to the doctor together.

"I am fine!" John stated causing the three paramedics to pause and look questioning between John and the other three men in the room.

"You're up to at least eleven, John," Sherlock said as he stood, gathering up his coat. "This one time, I think Mycroft may just be right. If it were me, you would have had me in a hospital about two hours ago. As it is, even I think eleven is too far; especially considering the nature of some of them." If the detective's words left any doubt about John's fate, his face did not.

Resigned, John let himself be led out. Sherlock was about to follow with Lestrade, when Mycroft coughed his little official cough and without words, the elder brother gave his warning and the younger nodded in response.

The Scotland Yard detective was seeing John into the back of the ambulance when Sherlock caught up.

"What did Mycroft want?" John asked as the paramedics pushed him down onto the bed.

"Nothing much. He wanted to annoy me more than anything. If it's really important he'll find a way of telling you."

John did not respond as Sherlock silently added another count to his internal tally.

Just before they sped off, the detective watched his brother climb into his customary black car and disappear in the opposite direction.


	3. Chapter 3

While serving in the army, John had often scoffed at the idea that doctors made the worst patients. As he tried to convince some of the most active members of any society, to rest and recover in bed while war continued around them, he had taken to believing that no group could make worse patients.

Then he treated a doctor.

With the fellow medic wanting to know every detail of her own case, worrying incessantly over anything and everything that could go wrong while also mercilessly commenting on John's technique, bed-side manner and every other action the poor doctor undertook while attempting to treat the woman, John had had to revise his ideas over who made the worst patients.

Then there was him.

A cruel mix of the two, he was unbearable. While recovering after Afghanistan, he had found himself grading his doctors out of ten on their techniques, adding his own comments to his own medical notes and, when these meagre activities had bored him, refusing to stay in bed, preferring instead to offer his expertise to those patients who happened to be sharing his ward.

The doctors, after trying to limit these going-ons, had ultimately given up and put up with him. Whenever John happened to look back on it, he couldn't help but to sympathize as his behaviour had been ridiculously similar to what Sherlock often resorted to when he was bored.

Even knowing his own shortfalls as a patient and the frustration it could cause, John found himself conducting the practices whenever he had the misfortune to be a patient, which, since he had meet Sherlock, had mysteriously stayed steady with his Afghanistan rate.

So, lying down on the bed in the ambulance, he couldn't help to call out a mere 3 when the paramedic attempted to take his blood pressure, catching the cuff on the edge of his jumper. His call of the number caused the man to pause, wondering what John meant, which further reduced his score in the latter's mind.

Sherlock, who had heard Doctor John Watson's complaining the first time his friend had been invalided on a case, was about to explain the meaning of the number to the confused paramedic, when John's gleaming eyes caught Sherlock's. With a slight shake of his head, the detective sat back to watch as his flatmate set about trying to confuse, annoy and irratate the medical man as much as possible in the short journey to the hospital and in the intermittent periods between attacks that he was able to.

Upon their arrival, the ambulance man began to explain John's condition to the waiting hospital nurses as they were trooped (or, in John's case, wheeled) down the plain, clean corridor. He had just moved from the basic facts and onto a more detailed assessment when Sherlock and John could take it no longer.

"In the 8 minutes he was in the ambulance, he had one -"

"One?!" John scoffed. "I know I've more than that and I've been having them – I shouldn't know!"

Meanwhile, Sherlock went for a more scathing attack. "While I appreciate that you are obviously an idiot, I would have thought even you would have even been able to notice at least three of the eight."

The paramedic swallowed nervously, then, having arrived at their destination room, shot the bemused hospital consultant a sympathetic glance before fleeing back to the safety of the ambulance at a pace befitting of a pursed hare.

An hour later, John and Sherlock were finally left alone.

The nurses had plugged the doctor into a tomb of wires which provided a backing track of beeps and buzzes.

Mycroft's _specialist _had come, poked John a bit, stolen two vials of blood and disappeared again after being graced with a magnificent mark of five from her new patient.

Sherlock's tally had reached forty and then continued to grow. The great detective had taken to a hard hospital chair in the corner of the room and fallen silent.

John had convulsed again.

Twice.

Exhausted, battered and bored, John had joined Sherlock in his silence until the boredom became too much.

"I have spent far too much around you!" John eventually sighed.

"I said danger and you came; you would have got bored by now even if you hadn't met me." Sherlock smiled.

They fell back into silence.

"So am I a medical mystery or can I blame you?" John again broke the quiet.

"It makes no sense!" the great detective cried as he pushed himself out of his chair and pulled at his black curls.

"What doesn't?" Sherlock began to pace.

"You!"

"Me?"

"You can't just develop it, not at your age - "

"Thanks!" John mumbled, Sherlock continued.

"- but it's all too different. There's no pattern. It could be drugs. They could break in Baker Street and Scotland Yard but they're irregular, different. I can't think of any drugs which would result in this. So..."

Again they lapsed into silence, both caught up in their own considerations of recent events.

"Blood!" Sherlock called suddenly.

"Blood?" John mirrored as his friend disappeared through his door. Sighing, he lowered himself back down and sagged, waiting for something to happen.

Sherlock reappeared with a syringe.

"Sherlock?" John nervously moved away from the Holmes as he approached with the needle already out and gleaming.

"I only need _some _blood."

"They've stolen two vials already, go steal that."

"But they'll have ruined it." Sherlock whined as John felt himself giving in.

"Fine!" He tiredly conceded as Sherlock gleefully removed the blood.

The needle had barely been pulled out from his arm before Sherlock had left, leaving the door to slam behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Really sorry for the long, long wait! Life got horribly mad - deaths, births, illness, work, work, workmen and buildings. But, I hope this makes up for it - this was the chapter that the whole story came from! Enjoy!**

* * *

John puzzled over himself as he listened to the mesmerising beeping of the heart monitor and slow ticking of a distant clock.

As a doctor, treating the sick from London to Timbuktu (literally), he had never come across a case such as his own.

As flatmate to a man who could name a ridiculous number of poisons and their symptom at the bat of an eyelid but still insisted in subjecting his own body to the range of chemicals, he had never come across a case such as his own.

As the beeping and ticking slowly passed the time, racking his memory for any small case which faintly resembled his own present state of health, John felt his exhausted body slowly drifting off to sleep…

He was hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when he heard the door slowly open, too fatigued to care, he continued floating in his hazy doze. However, this was quickly broken when the mad Irish tones of only one possible person, sighed a theatrical "Finally!"

This pulled John from his sleepful ravine to full adrenaline-rushed wakefulness, in a matter of seconds, as heralded by the quick repetitively beeping of the heart monitor.

"Do you know how long I've had to wait for you to be alone?" Arms settled dramatically on hips and with a mother's stern expression that at any other time would have been highly comically, the madman towered dominatingly at the end of the hospital bed.

"Moriarty." John nervously scanned the room, both searching for an escape route and anything he might need to escape from. Putting himself more at edge when he found neither, he began to feverish hope Sherlock would return from wherever he had disappeared off to, or a nurse to come in and find out what the cause of his fluttering heart.

"I have to say, for a once near recluse, you sure have people around you! I mean, all I want to do is come to talk to you and they will not leave you alone! You're a reasonable man John; do you think I'm asking too much?"

The torrent of words stopped as an answer was obviously expected.

"Why are you here?"

"Ever the solider, straight to the point! If you weren't getting in the way with our dear Sherlock, I might offer you a job! But there we are! I only came to wish you well, I forgot the bunch of grapes, sorry."

Suddenly feeling out at sea, John struggled to hold his composure as he tried to stop imagining the horror of having Moriarty sitting at his bedside. He had got use to the idea of him being present at his death, that was almost a said, but at his hospital bedside? An uncontrolled shudder ran through his body.

"No, I didn't think you'd like the idea any more than me." The arch criminal, butted in with a childish grin plastered on his face.

Abruptly, he turned serious. "No, I came to make sure you knew exactly what's going on. After all, it's a lot of effort I've put in; we can't have you putting it all to waste now."

"What do you mean?" John felt more nervous than he had done since Moriarty had entered the room. Something was happening.

"Doctor Watson, are you telling me you don't understand your own condition? I was told you were a good too; how disappointing." A curious, bird-like expression sat on Moriarty's face as he slowly came up beside John's head. The beeping of heart monitor again crept up, betraying the otherwise flawless façade of calm.

"I understand Sherlock not getting it - I mean, I did make doubly sure of that - but I was almost certain you would have worked it out by now."

"It's you! You… drugged me or something!" Sudden, cold, hard realisation hit.

"Well, I think you might be giving me a bit too much credit. I mean, I was bored, Sherlock was about to get bored, you were going to get annoyed at him, this man had some things he wanted testing… this was the perfect solution – a win for everyone, don't you think? Well, you don't, that's the problem." Moriarty slumped down in the seat next to the bed.

"Like, the nurse, for example, she knows I've come to see you, probably has notice your heart's gone a bit wild since I've come in, but I just happened to mention I was an ex-army buddy of yours and strangely enough, no-one's come in to see what all the commotion is! She thinks we're just walking down memory lane!" Sudden he was back on his feet, standing over John again.

"Even so, I think if you start beeping any faster, she might just come and interrupt and we would want that now. So I think I'll just go."

John was once more left in the dark as Moriarty walked out the door.

Alone, he felt the adrenalin which had been keeping him going, sudden leave him. His tiredness rolled back onto him as he folded into the bed once more. With a sigh, he absent mindlessly noticed the darkness slowly encroaching his vision.

The door was sudden flung open again.

"Sorry! Don't mind me, I just realised I forgot something!" Moriarty burst back into the room.

John found his body too tired to react, as the suited madman bore down at him.

"Can't do with forgetting my syringe now!" he whispered as he unceremoniously yanked the needle from where it had been lodged in John's upper arm. The heart monitor showed a feeble attempt at some anger on John's part toward both himself and the criminal-genius.

"I really should hook everyone I interrogate to one of these things," Moriarty mused as he fondly patted the beeping machine. "Sweet dreams," he smiled down at the doctor.

John didn't hear the door slam shut for the last time, he was already lost to the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was annoyed.

There was nothing in John's blood and he had been kicked out of the lab he had been using; his usual being on the other side of the building and he didn't have the time to go all the way.

Flying through the door to John's room, he was slightly put out to find his friend fast asleep. It was hardly surprising after everything he'd been through, but Sherlock needed someone to talk to and the skull wasn't around.

Huffing angrily, he threw himself down into the chair and took out his phone.

Before he could do anything, John twitched. It wasn't like the twitches people normally made when they were asleep, it was more like the twitch John made as he descended into his dreams of war; but it wasn't.

Sherlock was on his feet before he had even caught up with his own thought and, sure enough, the heart monitor was already beginning to beep wildly while John threw himself around the small confines of the hospital bed.

Not knowing if it was a nightmare or another epileptic fit, Sherlock did the only thing he could.

Howling down the corridor for a nurse, he could not shake off the unfamiliar feeling of not understanding a situation. Normally he could read John like a book, but now… he was feeling around in the dark and didn't like it at all.

Suddenly, as a small brigade of nurses and doctors burst into the room, John sat bolt upright. His dilated pupils darting around the room and chest heaving as he sucked in the oxygen he needed.

"Where is he? He was here! We need to go! What is he up to? What did he do? We need to go! Where is he..." the muttered torrent continued to spew from the shaken doctor's mouth.

"John…" Sherlock hesitantly ventured when no-one else seemed to do anything. "Who are you talking about? Why do we need to go?"

Still breathing heavily, John seemed to come to himself as he stopped muttering and turned, wide-eyed, to face his flatmate. "Moriarty." He whispered.

Sherlock immediately straighten, and began looking for signs of the intrusion when a gentle hand came to rest on his arm.

"John," a young, newly qualified, eager-to-please nurse had carefully stepped forward and was bending down at the bed side. "John, no one has been in here. No one but Mr Holmes and the doctors. I've been sitting outside all the time and I promise you, no-one has come in."

John looked back with panic clear in his eyes. "But…"

"There's no buts about it, no-one came in."

John looked dejected before suddenly triumphant, as if he had remembered something important. "But, he gave me something. Look!" he said as he eagerly rolled up his sleeve. He studied his arm thoughtfully for moment but then seemed to descend into desperation as he started to claw at the arm, twisting and turning as he did.

"There!" John proudly announced to the group, a beaming, knowing smile threatening to burst out of his face as he pointing to a point on his upper arm. The nurse, closest to him, smiled as she leaned in to look at the spot.

"What am I looking at John?" she gently prompted.

"The needle mark!" The doctor was at his worse, impatient and wanting to be believed, wanting safety.

"There's nothing there, John." The nurse lulled.

"What do you mean _there's nothing there_! Are you blind! And can you stop calling my name! I'm not a child!" he was shouting by this point, flinging his arms dramatically. With his unkempt look and gaunt face, he looked almost animalistic in nature.

Abruptly, he turned to the rest of the bystanders.

"Sherlock, you can see it. You can see the needle mark." John was almost begging as he pushed the offending arm towards the detective.

Taking a step forward, Sherlock bent down and carefully studied the arm.

"She's right John, there's nothing there," the unfailing observant man declared after a good pregnant minute spent studying the blemished and textured skin, looking up to meet his friend's eye.

John visible deflated. He seemed halfway to flopping back down onto the bed when he stopped and propelled himself back up.

"This was his plan! All along, this was what he was planning! I bet he's sitting watching this right now." John smiled a true, meaningful smile and then began to shout, loudly, to the rest of the room.

"Having fun are we Moriarty! Laughing at your own success! This was just what you wanted! Well, I'm not playing anymore! You've had your fun for now; go find someone else's life to ruin! I've had enough!"

The doctor continued much along the same line, unmindful of the rest of the people in the room.

Sherlock turned back to them and knew what they were thinking, without observing anything. Faced with the facts, he was inclined to agree with them at this point. John had descended into deep madness - he had finally lost it.

He noticed the newly-qualified nurse had quietly left the room in the mist of the commotion and it didn't take long to work out where for. She had left for John's latest prescription, probably hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper by a doctor while everyone else had been distracted.

As if to prove his point, said nurse now returned with a loaded syringe. Carefully sidestepping John's flailing arms, she ironically plunged the needle into the previous debated arm, still uncovered with a rolled up sleeve.

Within seconds, John Watson's eyes had rolled back in his head and he was laid down by the nurse's firm but gently hands.

The room was filled by the silence left until, as one, everyone decided to get on with whatever they were doing. One doctor made notes in John's file while the nurse checked the sleeping man. The others filed out.

Sherlock once again, threw himself into the chair and took out his phone. He determinedly texted and searched, appearing to be busy if only to avoid any unwanted and annoying conversation while the doctor and nurse did their work. Only after they had left, did he stop.

Sighing, he stood by his friend's bed; his only friend's hospital bed. Reaching for the file, he managed to decipher the doctor's scrawled hand into a list of new symptoms. Paranoia, hallucinations… the list went on.

Sherlock was going to find out what was going on. There was no question of him getting to the bottom of this. Whether evil mastermind or mental illness, Sherlock Holmes would find out what was happening.


	6. Chapter 6

It was over a week before Sherlock decided that the chances of Moriarty being involved in John's sudden ill-health were extraordinarily small. He had searched high and low, combing the hospital room, the results of the endless medical test and, thanks to continual pestering of Mycroft, the hospital's CCTV.

There were no signs of Moriarty anywhere.

But John still maintained that the criminal mastermind was behind it all. Or he had done.

Having a variety of drugs pumped into him, on and off, day and night, and in the limited times he was somewhat lucid, John had impressed on anyone who would listen that Moriarty was the cause of his current predicament.

Eventually, he stopped. When he realised this adamant mind-set was only resulting in more drugs, more tests and even less time being spent in any form of coherent state.

John Watson stopped trying.

And, although Sherlock had thought he would never see it again, John Watson stopped fighting.

The light went out of his eyes; he stopped marking the medical staff on their technique and, most worrying of all, stopped worrying about Sherlock.

Even when no-one else believed him, and he knew no-one else believed him, John had always worried over Sherlock. Stressing the Moriarty was behind it all and was surely going to come after Sherlock before too long or if he got too close to the truth and, as John had so elegantly put it:

"Who's going to save your life if I'm not there?"

But even that stopped eventually. John even stopped asking where Sherlock had been when he returned to the doctor's bedside after an afternoon or morning away.

Sherlock sighed deeply as his once lively friend sluggishly let his eyes roll around the boringly white hospital room.

It was four weeks since that day in Lestrade's office. A whole month of his life spent in and revolving around the sole occupant of one of the most boring rooms he had ever been in. Four whole week of his life being punctured by the constant beeping of the stupid heart monitor. It had long ago lost its reassuring tone, now Sherlock just wanted it to stop. He wanted to get out of the room, out of the clinically clean, boring hospital and to get back into the warmth and comfort of Baker Street.

But most of all, Sherlock wanted John back. He wanted the cheerful tones, the seemingly endless energy for the chase and little sigh that was made every time he'd left an experiment in the fridge. He wanted his only friend. Not this empty shell that lay there, staring blankly into the middle distance.

His shoulders slumping, Sherlock decided that if Moriarty was, indeed, behind this all, then he had won. He had defeated both John and Sherlock. The mind-numbing room had worked its magic on both of them, leaving them empty of their past selves.

Cynically, Sherlock decided that at least he was still functional, unlike John who needed drugs to wake up, drugs to go sleep and drugs for everything in between.

It was in such a state that Lestrade found the pair when he silently entered; John blanked faced and unmoving, Sherlock tightly folded into the uncomfortable chair.

"Has the doctor been yet?" the policeman asked glumly. He had been to visit as much as he could but the world of crime slowed for no-one, least of all John Watson. In fact, as news of John and, in turn, Sherlock spread, crime rates had seemed to soar leaving Lestrade feeling more tired than ever.

Before Sherlock could answer his question, however, the doctor turned up as if one cue.

"Gentlemen," he greeted as he silently consulted the various machines and files which lay, discarded by a certain bored individual, about the room.

"Well then," the doctor said when he had finished, "I do believe Dr. Watson is ready to return home."

Lestrade wasn't sure how he had expected Sherlock to react but he definitely didn't expect the man to jump up, gasping with that expression he always wore when he had just solved a hard case; a look no-one had seen for over a month. However, before Lestrade could ask what had happened, Sherlock had swept from the room dramatically without a word.

Lestrade could only smile as the doctor disappeared to get the endless forms which someone would have to fill in before John got the chance to go anywhere. And, strangely, he couldn't see Sherlock doing it.

Resigned, Lestrade felt for his trusty file-filling pen as he continued to stare out of the door into the empty white corridor.

"What's happening?" John suddenly asked quietly.

"Sherlock's solving some crime, I'm filling out paperwork and you're going home – everything's back to normal."

Lestrade was on the point of laughing but quickly swallowed it down when he turned and met the fear filled eyes of John Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

**Really sorry about the long wait, life was again mad! Here is the longest chapter yet - double the length they usually are. Not much really happens so I wanted to get through all of this boring (but very important) detail. **

**If anyone sees any mistakes, please point them out. I've tried to get rid of as many as possible but I fear more are left...**

**Hopefully updates will become slightly more regular.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Even after all the paperwork had been filled in, Sherlock had still not returned. It therefore fell to Lestrade to get John home.

And that was much easier said than done.

Whatever drugs John was on had given him the attention span of a goldfish: Lestrade had told him to get ready to leave as he went to find the piles of medication needed but, when he returned, the doctor only had one arm in his coat and was sitting down attempting to read the morning paper.

Ever patient, the DI somehow managed to herd John out of the hospital and into his car.

Satisfied that nothing had been forgotten, the pair sat in amicable silence as they drove through London. Upon reaching Baker Street, Lestrade somehow got the subdued John up the stairs to 221B and into his favoured armchair, while generally avoiding the mothering of Mrs Hudson.

While John blinked tiredly, Lestrade caught his breath as the kettle boiled. Sherlock had not been seen since he had run off at the hospital and the policeman knew he could not leave his friend alone in the flat – for one thing, Mycroft's esteemed specialist had said so.

Kettle boiled and tea made, the two of them spent the rest of day, slowly talking, watching rubbish telly and drinking ridiculous quantities of tea. It was not until Lestrade noticed the tea cup slowly falling out of John's hand as he nodded off to sleep, that he realised how late it was. Sherlock was still not returned so the policeman carefully coaxed the doctor into going to bed.

Later still, with the detective still missing, Lestrade, still unwilling to leave John alone, spread himself out on the sofa Sherlock so often reclined in…

And then it was morning and Sherlock was sweeping in, with a slamming of the door, a huff as he threw himself into his chair.

"Where have you been all night?" Lestrade broke the building silence.

Sherlock ignored him.

"I'll make some tea," the policeman announced simply.

"How's John?" Sherlock asked quietly as Lestrade once again stood at the kettle.

"Sorry? Did you just ask about John?" he huffed a hefty chucked, looking through the doorway at the slouched form of the detective in his chair. Sherlock just patiently stared back at him.

"He's… okay." He finally answered and turned back to the kettle.

When, tea made, he turned back to Sherlock, he found the great man had somehow silently disappeared again. Sighing in defeat, he carefully sat back down on the sofa, sipping his tea and attempting to feel slightly more awake.

Sherlock had, in fact, disappeared up to John's room in order to see how he was doing for himself. A rare boiling of anger bubbled slowly in the pit of his stomach as he watched the once active and only-slightly-a-idiot John Watson stand, with his back to the open door, staring at the half-open window in front of him.

"John?" the doctor did not turn or sway as his flatmate called out to him.

"Lestrade made tea." Even the promise of much loved tea had no effect as Sherlock slowly stalked into the room. He was standing right behind John now but the man showed no sign of turning around. Carefully, the detective reached a hand out and placed it gently on his friends shoulder.

Still there was no reaction.

Gently, he pulled John round to face him.

Sluggish eyes eventually focus on his face.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"What…?" the question is left unanswered as Sherlock gently pulled his flatmate out of his room and down into the living room. He led him to his chair, sat him down and placed a half empty cup of lukewarm tea in his hands.

Having settled his doctor, he turned around and was unemotional Sherlock again. Off he went at a pace no other human, bar maybe Mycroft, could ever hope to achieve, spewing deduction after deduction on some case or another.

At first Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was on about while John just stared blankly. Eventually, unwilling to wait for a pause in the tirade, the DI butted in.

"Which murder is this Sherlock?"

"The murder John's doctor carried out less than 48 hours ago" Sherlock stared knives into the DI's head. "Haven't you been paying attention? Just because it's not been reported yet, doesn't mean that it hasn't happened!"

"Have you just solved an unreported murder?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

"YES! Now are you going to arrest the man now, or once he's had the time to get out of the country because it's a lot harder then?"

Lestrade jumped up and with hurried thanks, flew out of the door, mobile already pressed to his ear. He was barking orders by the time the door to 221 Baker streets had slam shut.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he threw himself down on the sofa. John stared at the windows.

It was almost an hour later that Sherlock started talking. Something about some experiment. John slowly turned to face the detective, staring at him before turning back to the windows.

It was another two hours later that Sherlock's mobile chirped.

_Doctor in custody. _

_Body where you said it would be. _

_Did you remember to give John his medication?_

_Lestrade._

Sherlock turned to his flatmate. Three hours he had been staring out of the window. The detective sighed, went into the kitchen and returned with two little white pills. Much like that first day, now over a month ago, he crouched down in front of John and glazed eyes blinked back at him.

Once the pills were taken, John blinked and stood up suddenly, again knocking Sherlock to the fall.

"Sherlock!" the yell came.

"What?" the detective asked.

Silence descended once more while Sherlock could see John's mind working furiously to achieve something.

"I don't know," the hesitant statement seemed forced from the doctor's mouth as he slowly sat back down.

Sherlock frowned but eventually went back to the ears he had in the freezer.

And so it continued.

Life slowly returning to some form of normality.

Sherlock somehow managed to take on the responsibility, not only for his own life, but also his only friend's.

The detective would feed John and making sure he took his medication throughout the week. It was only every now and then that he forgot to eat himself. If he needed to go out, Mrs Hudson would come up from 221A to keep an eye on John. She had also taken to doing their shopping, even if every time she did, she swore it would be the last time.

Lestrade came every Sunday and the three men would talk, about crimes or cases or John's health.

And as time went on, John got slightly better. Nowhere as good as he had been, but better.

He would hold strange conversions with himself at times while staring into the middle distance at others. But he would follow conversation, sometimes adding to it. If food was placed in front of him, he would eat it and had even taken to reading the paper. Sure he would sometimes read the same article five times without seeming to notice or would answer a question hours after it had been asked, but he was definitely getting better.

Sherlock had even been able to keep working. Lestrade had brought round some of the massive backlog he had been working though from the strange crime peek London had experienced during John's hospital stay and, as John sat in his chair or tried to read the paper, Sherlock would solve one after the other.

Two weeks after John's discharge, Sherlock had also begun to take on private cases and a couple of new ones for Lestrade. Much of the work was done from his sofa – it nearly always had been – but occasionally he would go out and Mrs Hudson would look after John. They would go for walks, the landlady providing a constant commentary as John walked along next to her.

It was after another month, some two months since he had first been taken ill, that John went to his first crime scene.

It was a Sunday. Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing a case that the DI had been working on that week when his phone rang.

"There's been a murder, Sir." Sally Donovan's voice rang out across the silent room.

"I'm on my way," Lestrade sighed as he pushed himself out of his chair.

"You'd better bring the freak too,"

Lestrade stopped, turning to Sherlock.

"Why?" he asked slowly.

"There's this envelope addressed to him." she said unbothered. "Plus it's a Sunday, I want to go home and I doubt that we'll be able to identify a naked mutilated corpse found in an empty locked room, let alone find who did it." the sergeant gushed out.

"We're on our way." He hung up.

Sherlock and Lestrade were both in their coats and halfway through the door when John said it.

"Mrs Hudson's gone to see her sister." The two men stopped in their tracks.

The smile on John's face and the glitter in his eye when they turned round almost made the pair think that the last couple of months had not happened and John was at the peak of mental and physical health.

John stood up, put his coat on and walked past the two in the doorway. Even Sherlock was left speechless at the sudden seemingly complete recover. The pair quickly set of in pursuit only to have their hopes of a recovered John Watson dashed as he stood next to the doorstep carefully studying his right hand, his nose pushed against his palm.

Sherlock let go of the breath he had been holding and, with the help of Lestrade, managed to get John into a cab.

When they arrived at the crime scene, John was sandwiched between the two detectives as they walked towards the corpse. The attending officers fell silent as they watched the once lively doctor being led by the hand of the once uncaring detective.

The three stood in a tight line over the body and Sherlock reeled off deductions.

It was only when the consulting detective suddenly twisted away and ran into the enjoining room to open his letter, quickly followed by Lestrade that John was left alone. Carefully, he took a step forward and then another and before long found himself on his knees next to what had been the victim's head.

He leaned forward and then sudden, acting on impulse and instinct alone, pulled on some latex gloves he had left over in his coat pocket and started probing round the slashed neck and mouth.

"Strangled. He was strangled and then cut up. He must have died about a week ago." Smiling to himself, he revelled in the feeling of having worked out something himself.

He looked down at the victim's outstretched hand, noting the blue tinged fingertips and unusual knurled knuckles but could then only gasp as the fog once more descended on his mind and he was left staring at the blood splattered barred window.

Sherlock and Lestrade watched this from the doorway in silence. It had been sometime since John had down anything like that: using any of his more intellectual knowledge.

Sherlock had then, very quickly, solved the murder, pointed them in the direction of the killer and, with the help of Lestrade, managed to get John back home and into bed. In the morning, he seemed to have reverted to his semi-recovered state.

And so had continued their return to normality, John going with Sherlock to crime scenes if Mrs Hudson wasn't around and staying at home when she was. And ever so occasionally, and only when faced with a dead body, John would seem to recover fully and make his own detections about the crime.

Although he never seemed to share all of them.

At least, he didn't until the death of Peter Jones…


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: I was meant to get this out a couple of week ago but my computer died and I lost it. But here it is again! **

**Thanks go to Katelyn Isilhin who not only reviewed my last chapter but reminded me to write this one too. Thanks. **

**Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

It was a Sunday.

It was _always_ a Sunday. The one day of the week Lestrade considered himself to really not be working – his one day off.

People had a very annoying habit of being killed on a Sunday. After however many years on the force, Lestrade should know better – he should have changed his day off to Tuesday.

Nobody died on a Tuesday for Sunday was the day to be killed.

Or, in this case, the day the body was found.

Sherlock, of course, was ecstatic.

However much he looked like he enjoyed spending days, caring for John and conversing politely with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson in turn, everyone knew he was getting restless. He wanted his life to return to how it had been and, if Lestrade didn't know better, he'd say that Sherlock seemed to just be waiting. Waiting for John's irreversible descent into madness and isolation to sudden be reversed.

He seemed to be waiting for John.

And yet everyone knew that Sherlock, who spent his days and nights with the changed man, knew that John - the healthy, active, powerfully friendly John - was not going to suddenly reappear.

But, on this Sunday, Sherlock was just excited about having something interesting to do.

So, as Lestrade could not turn down the consulting detective, the two of them got John up, into his coat and into a waiting cab as quickly as they could. Lestrade, sitting opposite John, silently hoped for this to be a crime scene where John 'woke up'.

Between him and Sherlock, there had been much debate and consideration given to the times and conditions of John 'wakeful' periods. But the pair had yet to reach any conclusion about the cause of them.

They always occurred at crimes scenes and they always occurred when the cause of death was slightly more obscure, or altogether different from the obvious answer.

John would always state the cause of death before switching off again and staring out of the window.

Sherlock would always solve the crime in about 10 seconds flat following John's revelation.

And Lestrade would always have to fill in the paperwork.

They almost seemed like old times.

But, of the 20 or so crime scenes they had visited since that first one, John had only 'woken up' about 4 times and they tended to be for such a short period that only details of the corpse in front of them were swapped. There was also no pattern (Sherlock had spent a good three days looking for one after the fourth waking), and so there was no knowing if the next crime scene would be a wakeful one.

Each time, Sherlock would go home happy and Lestrade's filling in of the obligatory forms seemed to pass much faster.

And so, both men hoped, on the way to any crime scene, that it would be one where the old John would reappear.

And then, as Lestrade continued to hope, they were there. Together the three of them got out of the cab, Lestrade paying the driver and Sherlock helping John.

Before long, they, as always, were standing over a blooded corpse in a dirty, smelly room.

It was surrounded in blood, the naked body facing down, hiding the cause of death. One arm was folded under the head, hiding the whole face while the other was stretched outward, a single elegant finger pointing to a bare patch of blood splattered wall.

"Where's the window?" John asked after the barest glance at the body.

"Window?" Lestrade asked before Sherlock shushed him, staring intently at John.

Was this is? Was John awake?

After a good minute staring at his blinking flatmate, the detective decided that it was just one of the strange things that were now blurted out on a semi-regular basis.

"Have we got an ID?" the consulting detective turned back to the waiting police sergeant.

No was the simple answer.

Sherlock continued prowling the body before moving on the rest of the room as the police photographers snapped some finally shots of the undisturbed body.

John stepped forward.

Between the photographers and the undertakers, the doctor snuck in and started peering at the outstretched hand. Working his way down the arm slowly, the roomful of people had stopped to see the doctor complete a more thorough examination than even Sherlock had managed.

Upon reaching the elbow, he stopped. With a quick intake of breath, he spun round to the turned down head.

"Peter? Is he Peter?" He asked the silent room. Getting no answer, he looked up at the surrounding crowd, piercing those nearest him with a glare previously unseen from the more gentle doctor.

Sherlock took a step forward but John quickly grabbed the furthest shoulder of the corpse and pulled it round so that the body was facing upwards.

Still crouching John paled as the rest of the room collectively recoiled. Bar Sherlock who learnt further in, his attention diverted from John to the symmetrical display which lay before him.

Somehow, the whole heart had been removed from a thin line with made its way down the front of the chest, from the top of the sternum down to the lone bellybutton. It had then been skilfully sown back onto the chest, just above where it should be. Still fully of blood, the organ was stained bright red making it stand out against the pale skin.

The only other blemishes to be found were two little sown up holes at the bottom of the rib cage, one either side.

Sherlock silently deduced them.

Bullet holes. Sown up by different surgeons – left more skillful than right. Acquired at different times.

The rest of the room, stunned by the sight of the heart, didn't notice John's jaw hardening.

Sherlock just noticed him barely thumbing the left scar.

And no one, not even Sherlock, noticed him suddenly stop and turn back to the pointing hand. No one saw him carefully lifting one foot up from the pool of blood he was crouched in, before again pausing and looking towards the wall for a finally time.

"No window." his quiet, seemingly nonsensical statement to the silent room, made everyone look back towards him in bewilderment.

"Everyone get out. Now." Everyone seemed to move at his equally quiet command. Without reason or explanation, seasoned police officers found themselves moving towards the doorway and out onto the street.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively when the room had half emptied.

"Sherlock, get out of here." John replied, turning to face his friend.

And there it was. Sherlock could see it. John was most definitely awake.

When Sherlock still didn't move, the room now empty of everyone bar John, Sherlock and Lestrade who hadn't moved at all, John spoke again.

"Sherlock get out of here! You too Greg." He commanded as he stood up and spun on the spot.

"Why?" Sherlock asked without moving.

"Why do you never listen?" John stopping spinning and faced Sherlock, his hands dangerously close to settling on his hips.

"Of all the times for you to start questioning me?" John seemed to be speaking to himself as he made one last rotation of the room.

"And you Lestrade!" John bemoaned more as he caught sight of the police detective who had only taken one step towards the door, but whether that was due to John telling him to, or so that he could hear what was going on outside, was anyone's guess.

Stopping so that he was facing Sherlock again, John nodded once and looked down at the body.

"Sorry Pete, I messed up this time. It's my fault and I apologise." John Watson sighed deeply. "At least it was quick," he muttered, almost as more of a comfort to his obvious guilt than his dead friend.

"Why are you blaming yourself?" Sherlock couldn't help asking as his flatmate stood up straighter. "And why are you saying it was quick? That cut would have hurt and…" he trailed off as he caught sight of Lestrade's fast shaking head over John's shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes." John was standing fully upright, more than he had managed for however long it now was.

"If one of us was to get us killed, I'd have thought it would be you." Confusion descended quickly and completely. "Sorry." John added almost as an afterthought – if Sherlock hadn't been so confused he may have laughed at his friend's almost sociopathic display of emotions.

As it was he could do nothing as John quickly hopped over the corpse, launching himself at the detective before using his momentum to carry the pair of them round towards the door, catching Lestrade into the huddle as they went. The shorter man propelled the two detectives out of the room and down the corridor.

And all the time he counted.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

They could see the open door leading to the street and the police officers waiting patiently beyond it.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

They were nearly at the door.

Fifteen.

The bang was loud and the fire large.

At the moment she heard it, Sally Donovan could only be thankful that they were in a derelict house, in the middle of a derelict neighbourhood.

But it made you think…

How had they found the body?


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Sorry for the slow update - was meant to do this last week but ended up reading loads instead! Sorry. **

**This is almost a slow chapter but the next should be lots and lots of fun! **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

As the dust continued to fall, he coughed. Once, twice.

It hurt to breath.

Dark shapes loomed up out of the hanging dust, charred broken edges of buildings and what may have been a car.

And then a voice. And a silhouette, standing tall in the hazy.

"Is anyone hurt? Does anyone need any help?"

Help. He should be helping. It was his job.

Lestrade clambered to his feet and managed to stumble towards the shorter shadow of John.

He could hear others getting up now, patting themselves down and looking around in bewilderment. No one seemed to be hurt at all. There was Sally ducking back up from behind a car and Anderson sauntering towards her. The rest of the forensic team were getting back out of their van and the police officers were standing at the police tape, looking back at the devastation in shock.

"You're alive then," John's voice came from his shoulder. "Are you hurt?" the doctor asked as the police detective turned to him.

There was a pause as Lestrade tried to take everything in. "Greg?" the concern in the one word was almost overwhelming.

"I'm fine, John. Absolutely fine. Thanks to you, I suppose."

"What do you mean _I suppose_? Of course it's all down to John, neither of us knew there was a bomb and without John's warning all of us would be dead. There's no _I_ _suppose_ about it."

"Sherlock! We've all nearly been blown up and I really don't have the time for you to starting petty argument." Sherlock looked taken back as John turned away from him and again swept a well trained eye over the scene for anyone who may have been hurt.

"Oh, how I've missed you John!" Lestrade finally sighed as he watched on.

His exclamation caused both Sherlock's hanging and John's surveying heads to spin back towards him, confusion momentary plastered on both of them.

Their next reaction would have been comical in any other situation: the way Sherlock - unfailing, observing Sherlock - suddenly remembered the past 3 months and turned to John, almost frantically observing and measuring and checking and trying desperately to work out what had changed. John simple stood there and allowed himself to be studied.

"How -?"

"Peter–"

The both started off at the same time. Sherlock looked like his was going to plough on as always but John stopped him.

"There'll be time for your questions later but right now we don't have it," he turned to Lestrade. "You will not catch Peter's killer, I'm willing to bet they're already dead and have been as soon as Moriarty worked out who Peter was, so stop looking. Things are going to change now and I'm sorry I've not done this before but I knew the two of you would probably just get hurt and I was scared and didn't know what to do."

John's cryptic message was delivered so quickly that it had ended as a garbled string of words and sounds. The doctor was now bouncing lightly on his feet as if trying to get himself even more worked up.

"John, slow down and tell us what you're on about." Sherlock grabbed his flatmate's shoulders and turned him to face him.

"No. I'm sorry but there is not enough time. All you need to know is that this killing spree is going to stop and I am going to come back." He was slowly this time, each word almost being over-formed.

"Killing spree? What killing spree?" Lestrade tried in vain to make some sense of the message John was desperately trying to force upon them.

Pulling himself free of Sherlock's grasp, John turned to Lestrade, sinking into himself as he did. And in that one look, Greg Lestrade understood. The doctor's face filled with a resolved determination and guilt and sorrow so deep that, after nearly three months, the policeman knew was only now going to begin to end.

"This spree, this nonsensical petty killing spree," the anger of his words made no impression on John's overwhelming grief and sorrow. And then they all visible rolled off him and he melted back down to a whisper. "Look after him and I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock looked on in confusion as the three of them seemed to continue to follow some unseen twisting script written by some greater power.

With a small smile and a twinkle in his eye, the answer came.

"For your brother."

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock spotted the black car speeding round the corner and down the road towards them.

Ignoring him, John carried on.

"Oh, and this." He pulled round quickly and swung back, his fist connecting sharply with Sherlock's head, causing the detective's eyes to roll back and him to fall to the ground.

Thanking his quick reflexes for not quite giving up on him yet, Lestrade managed to catch the falling detective before he hit the floor. However, his body only served him so far, his knees giving way under the added weight causing them both to fold to the ground.

By the time he looked up, John was nowhere in sight and a unique figure of Mycroft Holmes was making its very quick way towards them through the rubble and smoke.

"Where did he go? Where did John go?" he called frantically, hoping against hope that someone would know the answer, would have seen what had happened and gone after the fleeing man. But it seemed that while he and Sherlock had been trying to desperately keep track of John's ominous tirade, the clear up had begun and everyone was as far away from the burning house as they could get. Sally heard him from the distance and shook her head in answer to his shouted question.

It was only now that Lestrade realised that they were rather close to the fire themselves, its dark smoke obscuring them, and perhaps, if he could lift the unconscious form spread across him, they should also get back.

And then Mycroft was on them.

"Detective Lestrade, what is going on?" the precise clipped tone of the man defied the tremor of fear and panic his eyes.

"Where did John go? Did you see?" Lestrade made no such effort to conceal his emotion as he tried to push Sherlock up.

"Dr. Watson?" Mycroft paused for a moment in obvious confusion before he, surprisingly, bent down and helped to lift Sherlock up. "I was under the impression that he was being cared for by my dear brother and your good self, following his… health scare. Is that no longer the case?" He usually measured tone was notably missing as he had continued on.

Between the pair of them, the consulting detective was quickly hanging limply from their two shoulders.

"Don't ask me what's wrong with John; Sherlock probably got more than me." Lestrade said as they started on their way over the rubble towards the waiting car. "Why did you come here? Was it the explosion?"

Their conversation paused as they stopped to try and get Sherlock's awkward frame into the car. Soon they were on their way.

"I rather think Dr. Watson wanted you and my brother to be safe."

"Safe? Why would John want us… What -?" Lestrade's stutterings were cut off as Sherlock groaned back to wakefulness.

"What's going on?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"John punched you," Lestrade replied when Mycroft made no move to answer.

"Oh yes." The detective suddenly came to life as he unfurled himself and sat straight upright. "Where is he?"

"I don't know, he disappeared while I was helping you," Lestrade answered as Mycroft looked away.

"Disappeared? Did no one see him?" Sherlock leaned forward towards the policeman, staring at him intensely.

"No, no one." Sherlock rolled round to his brother.

"You knew and yet you left. You left him there! How dare you! If I don't find him…"

"What have I told you about jumping to conclusions without all the facts, Sherlock?" the weary sigh cut effortlessly across the empty threats.

"What am I missing?! He obvious went to try and stop Moriarty alone and here we all are in _your_ car, driving away!"

Wordlessly, Mycroft handed Sherlock his phone, a text already open.

"Oh." The device fell silently to his lap as the detective fell back into his seat, closing his eyes and steeping his fingers under his chin.

Mycroft returned to his study of the scenery flashing back the window. Silence descended.

"Sorry, where's John?"

Sherlock opened an eye and nodded to the rising smoke of the burning building they we leaving behind, out of the car window.

"At the crime scene? But no-one saw him!"

"Exactly, no one saw him so he couldn't have left." Mycroft answered.

"So where was he?" Lestrade asked again, feeling even more confused.

Again Sherlock just nodded to the rising smoke.

"…Hang on, are you telling me that John is _IN_ the burning building."

Another nod.

"But that's suicide! Why on earth would he go back...? Shouldn't we turn round to go and help him!"

"Do calm down Mr Lestrade," Mycroft politely stated, "there is nothing more we can do and I do rather think that any aid you may have to offer would be more of a hindrance than a help."

"What do you mean there's nothing we can do? Is he already dead? How would it be a hindrance?"

"John is probably still alive but is no longer in that building. It was where he was supposed to be and has long since been removed from. He wanted us to be here, that's why he texted Mycroft asking for a safe house to be prepared from my phone. He therefore has a plan which would be disrupted were we there. We should therefore be here and he is where he should be."

Sherlock had answered with his eyes closed while Mycroft had seemed oblivious to the explanation. Silence reigned once more.

The car pulled to a stop outside a leafy and stunningly large urban mansion. As he and Mycroft got out of the car, Lestrade tentatively asked one more question.

"So what is John's plan?"

Sherlock, still ensconced in the back of car, suddenly flung himself out, striding off to the waiting open door. He called back the answer.

"That's what we've got to work out."


End file.
